Hipster Chickens
by Caramel Machete
Summary: Tim is having a no good, very bad night. Dick and Jason decide that this is the perfect time to act as proper big brothers and troll him mercilessly.


_Author's Note : this is my attempt at humor and fluff. Mild character injury. Mentions of gross alien goo. Tim swears a couple of times. And there is discussion of hipsters._

Tim is having possibly one of the most embarrassing nights of his vigilante career.

And it's about to get worse, because Tim hears the distinct roar of two motorcycles entering the cave, which means Nightwing and Red Hood are returning together. That just takes the ever loving cake, doesn't it, because he might have - maybe - been able to handle the snark and laughter from one of them. But both of them, like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, having a grand old time at Tim's expense. Tim is glad that Jason is slowly reintegrating into the family. He is. But maybe if Jason's and Dick's favorite bonding activity wasn't making fun of the younger siblings? That would be great.

Probably too much to ask for.

Dick says that it's their god-given right as the eldest two. The natural order of things. Cass - the sweet, actual human ray of sunshine when she wasn't being terrifying and scary and beating the crap out of people - had nodded solemnly. When Tim has raised an eyebrow at her - _really? Really Cass? I let you steal my marshmallows_ \- she had just said "Eighteen." The number of months she was older than Tim by.

Traitor.

Anyway, Tim can't really move, so he can't escape. By their laughter and playful banter, he can tell that Hood and Wing are in good moods before they even reach the decontamination area. He's just not sure if that is going to make this easier or harder for Tim.

The first two Robins come to a stop in front of the decon shower. Jason has his helmet under his arm, and both of their dominoes are already off. The better to mock Tim with. One of Jason's eyebrows sweeps up even as a corner of his mouth curls into a half-grin. Dick's lips are pursed, as if he is trying hard not to smile, but his eyes sparkle in amusement.

Jason sniffs and his grin turns into a curl of disgust. "Replacement, didn't we tell you to avoid the alien pods in the Stadium? The JLA is sending a team to clean them up tomorrow."

"You did," Tim says.

"Then why . . . what happened?" Dick asks. "Because I'm not sure, but I think that's alien goo."

Jason studies Tim, then one hand pretends to stroke an invisible beard. "I believe it is, though I can see how you were confused, what with the feathers stuck to it."

"Don't forget the leaves," Dick adds helpfully.

"But why is that part orange? I thought the goo was green," Jason says.

"Only from the green pods. The goo from the orange pods is . . . orange," Tim mumbles.

Dick laughs. "Oh my god, Tim, how did you get one of the orange pods to spit at you? They seem to be sick and are usually asleep. We think they have alien sinus infections."

Tim shudders. Sinus infections. That . . . . well, that explains some things. Not good things. But at least he knows now. That counts for something, right?

Jason groans. "That's why it smells. It's not just alien goo - it's alien snot. I hereby name you Mucus Boy."

Tim shifts and winces at the pain shooting up his spine and across his pelvis.

Dick sobers a bit. "You hurt, Timmy? There's a chair for this shower somewhere." He looks around as if it is going to magically apparate next to them.

"I'd really rather not sit down now, than you," Tim says with as much dignity as he can muster.

Jason examines Tim once more. "I think that you're going to have to tell us exactly what happened."

Dick nods, and at least he looks more concerned than amused now. "Tim, if you're hurt, let me help. Sure I can't get a chair or a cot for you?"

"He's obviously fine, if he's standing. I'm more curious how he ended up at the football stadium, after B told him to stay away, got himself spit at by at least two pods, then covered in leaves and feathers."

Tim glares at Jason. _Rude._

"Are those . . . chicken feathers?" Dick says.

Tim contemplates not answering, but it's not as if Dick and Jason won't figure it out. Chicken feathers look like, well, chicken feathers. And they're all trained detectives.

Jason gives a decisive snort. "They are definitely chicken feathers. But from where?"

"Urban chicken coops are very popular these days, Jay," Dick says in a playful tone. "Haven't you ever watched 'Portlandia'?"

Jason is delighted. "Tim got himself covered in feathers from _hipster chickens._ Shit, Replacement, I'm almost impressed."

"What about the leaves?" Dick asks. "Are they hipster leaves?"

"Can't be. If they were, they'd be autumn leaves."

"Why?" Tim asks despite himself.

"Because they'd be really into fall long before anyone else."

Dick groans. "Hipster chickens was better." He looks around. "Where's Alfred?"

"He's supposed to be getting more solvent, but he's been gone for a long time." Too fucking long. All Tim wants to do is get rid of the goo - the sticky, stinky, evil alien pod saliva and/or mucus goo - and go to bed. Where he's going to sleep on his stomach. What even is his life.

"Don't feel bad, Tim," Jason says. "You're the hipster Robin. You stopped being Robin before it was cool."

And despite being told not to bother, Dick is shoving a plastic shower chair at Tim, who hadn't even noticed when Dick left. Sloppy, Tim.

Tim nods in acknowledgement but doesn't sit.

Jason's mouth of quirks up far too much, belying his silky solicitous tone when he says, "I don't think Timbo here really wants to sit down."

Crap. Jason seems to have at least a suspicion.

"Why is that, exactly? Tim, what's wrong?" Dick asks, and he really does seem to care.

Tim sighs. Busted. Why does the world hate Timothy Drake? "Alfred can't do an x-ray until I'm cleaned up, but he thinks I may have fractured my coccyx."

Jason bursts into laughter. Jason is evil. Tim will _cut_ him.

Even Dick has to bite his lip to stop from laughing as he coos, "Oh, poor Timmy. How did you hurt your tail bone?"

"You mean, how did he fall down and land on his ass? And literally break his butt?" Jason says between chuckles.

"I don't want to talk about it," Tim says. "And where the fuck is Alfred?"

Of course that's when Alfred turns up. "Language, Master Timothy. I am well-aware that you've had a trying night, but one must always strive to maintain civility."

"Sorry, Alfred."

Even Jason and Dick look slightly abashed. For all of ten seconds.

"Pardon the delay, but I'm afraid I had a rather challenging time locating more of the specific solvent we require," Alfred says.

Tim is instantly suspicious. Alfred only sounds so perfectly English when he is about to deliver some bad but not life threatening news.

"I'm afraid the only supply is currently in the Watchtower."

Dick grins again. "Isn't Wally on monitor duty tonight?"

"Indeed. It seems as if Master Wallace is more than willing to bring some down to the cave, but only if he can take one of those so-called selfies with Master Timothy."

Jason and Dick's shoulders shake.

"He said he has his own 'selfie stick' if we don't have one," Alfred continues. The disdain Alfred manages to pack into the three syllables is impressive. Shakespearean training for the win. "I believe he will be here momentarily."

Tim would bury his face in his hands if they weren't covered in goo.

"Fine, fine, whatever," he says, staring at the ground.

Just then Batman and Robin arrive in the Batmobile. Everyone is quiet while they wait for them to approach.

Damian looks at Tim, eyebrows raised. "Drake, what is the meaning of this?"

"Ask me if I'm okay. Just ask."

* * *

Tim sleeps at the manor that night, and when he gets back to his apartment the next day, he finds a large gift bag sitting on his kitchen table. It's decorated with a picture of a black and white sloth wearing a beanie hat riding a penny-farthing.

Tim groans. The label says it's from Dick and Jason, and he trusts Dick enough to open the bag. Dick wouldn't let Jason plant a bomb in a present for Tim. Probably.

He removes the perfectly fluffed tissue paper to reveal a vintage portable record player, a fake beard and moustache, suspenders, a fedora, and a book called Urban Chicken Keeping for Dummies. He sees a note at the bottom that says "check your computer chair." Tim sighs but looks as instructed. Festooned with a jaunty bow, a plaid-covered donut pillow rests on the seat.

Tim is going to stab them.

He sits on the donut pillow. It's the first time he's been able to sit comfortably in twenty-four hours.

Okay, he's just going to lightly stab them. He loves this pillow.

* * *

 _Author's Note I hope you enjoyed! Let me know if you found it funny or not._


End file.
